


Sinister Bend

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1950s, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Politics, Religion, Social Dancing, Summer Camp, Unintended Consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 23:58:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: This is a story of how two people lost their virginity. And how itplunged the nation into the gravest crisis in its history.





	Sinister Bend


      bend sinister:
      A heraldic device consisting of a bar slanting obliquely from the
      top left of the escutcheon to the bottom right. The implication is
      of a birth "on the wrong side of the blanket" somewhere in the line
      of descent.
    

Morris:

1955 the year was. It was late August and the Yankees looked like a  
sure bet to regain the pennant. The 283 Chevy V8 ruled the streets.  
Rock and roll music was starting to rule the airwaves. I had just turned  
18 and was still a virgin, not that I lost much sleep over it.

My parents were in the habit of spending their annual two-week vacation  
at a resort in the Adirondacks, about a three hour ride from their  
Riverside Drive apartment in Manhattan. As a newly-minted adult, I  
finally impressed them as mature enough to come along. I thought this a  
considerable improvement over past years of having to board at my aunt's,  
with bratty little kids underfoot and nothing much to do. And my mother,  
at least, had great hopes of finally getting my nose out of my books.

There wasn't much traffic on Route 9 the morning we left. The sun was  
just starting to come over the horizon on my right, as I sat in the back  
seat with my nose in a book, naturally.

"Morris, pay attention to me. You'll have the chance to meet girls up  
there at Schwanger's. Nice girls. They have dances nightly, and the  
other social activities -- "

"Quiet, Ruth. Kindly let me concentrate on my driving." That was my  
father. "You'll make the both of us crazy with this constant pounding  
into his head about girls and social life. If Morrie wants to read and  
be by himself, let him. He's a college boy. When he's already a doctor  
or a lawyer, that'll be time enough for girls."

Dad would take up for me after mother's nagging reached a certain  
threshold. Maybe he was grateful for my company. Maybe he was finally  
starting to respect me as an adult.

***

Jo:

1955 the year was. The leaves were just a few weeks short of turning  
colors and the Dodgers were still going strong. Designers in Dearborn,  
Michigan, dreamed about tailfins and double headlights. A young guitar  
strummer and hip swinger was starting his career down Memphis way. Not  
that I much cared about baseball and cars and rock and roll. I was an  
old maid. I had turned 43 a couple of months back and was still a virgin.

The management of Schwanger's Resort had just promoted me to Director of  
Administration. It was a darn good job for a woman and I was darn good at  
my job, efficient at handling mountains of paperwork. Good old steady and  
reliable Josie Carpenter. Dull and boring, perhaps, but morally upright,  
never taking a risk, never a wrong step, always predictable. "Holy Jo"  
they called me behind my back, never dreaming that dark undercurrents  
roiled my emotions and disturbed my sleep.

My parents had brought me up to be virtuous and respectable, and I hadn't  
disappointed them. Oh, there had been temptations now and then, like the  
time I almost got engaged to that handsome seminary student back before  
the war. When we had kissed I felt all soft and squishy inside. But then  
came the guilt and I couldn't go any farther. I was still curious though.  
Curious about these feelings that still swept over me, now and again.  
Curious about the heat that burned within me. Curious about what they  
call "the facts of life." Curious about the details. No one had ever  
explained to me exactly how babies are conceived.

***

Morris:

Festoons of multicolored crepe streamers and bunting hung from the rafters  
of the rec hall. The band was limping through an unconvincing imitation  
of a samba. They couldn't just call it something straightforward, like a  
First Night Welcoming Dance. No, it had to be "Mardi Gras & Rio Carneval  
All-In-One Super Extravaganza." The spiked punch hadn't yet produced  
a noticeable effect, and couples were milling around in clumps on the  
dance floor, talking and laughing. I was sitting in a far corner with  
my nose in a book, naturally.

"Whatcha readin' kiddo?" It was a skinny young woman about my age,  
her hair done up in ringlets, loudly chewing gum.

"Nabokov's _Bend Sinister_. It's about -- "

"Never hoid of a Nobby Cop. Not too much interested in books, anyway.  
Ain't read none since I got outta school, and din't much read even  
before. _Classics Illustrated_ , ya know. You're cute, though.  
Wanna dance?"

I knew all too well. Many of my classmates assiduously read _Classics  
Illustrated_ comics to avoid having to read the actual classics.  
It was good enough for book reports, sure, but you didn't get any of the  
flavor of the literature, and no, I didn't especially wanna dance or wanna  
do anything else with this second-rate impersonation of a human being.

"You're charming and I'd love to dance, but . . . injuries sustained  
falling off the scaffolding while washing windows on the 80th story of  
the Empire State Building are still in the process of healing. Internal  
bleeding, uncontrollable diarrhea and all that stuff. You know. Try me  
again in six months."

I didn't think she'd get back to me, in six months or in six years. I  
inserted my nose back into the book.

About an hour later, there was a tap on my shoulder. My mother was  
standing there beaming, with a lady about her age who had a younger  
woman in tow. "Morris, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend,  
Mrs. Rosner, and her daughter Marlene." Then a whisper into my ear:  
"Stand up, you klutz. Her father owns a dozen meat processing plants.  
At least try to make nice."

And so it went for a couple of hours. I finally got disgusted enough to  
leave. No one noticed, or maybe no one cared enough to notice. I sat a  
while outside our cabin trying to concentrate on the book, then finally  
gave up and went in and crawled under the covers.

***

Jo:

Dr. Hoggenberg has taken an interest in me. We talked for hours last  
night. Hoggy's a liver specialist who's taking a long-overdue vacation  
here at the resort with his wife. His wife, whom he doesn't love, and  
with whom he hasn't taken fleshly pleasures in years. I've become a sort  
of confidante for him, someone he can unburden his soul to. Last night  
as we said goodbye, he kissed me. Me, a middle-aged spinster. On the lips.

This morning, I was wet _down there_ as I awakened. I had dreamed  
about him, and I vaguely remembered waves of heat and cold washing over  
me. I wanted him next to me, in the circle of my arms, pressed to me,  
and in some indefinable way, _inside_ me. I don't understand. I've  
never had feelings like that before. I'm afraid. I'm lonely. I'm curious.

* * *

Morris:

I finally got around to the books I'd hidden in my suitcase. Under my  
dress shirts. Wrapped in butcher paper. Books I'd found in a grubby  
little shop on Canal Street, in between the shops on "Electronic Row."

I put a 45 on the portable record player, the better to read by. The  
band my mom called "Bill Haley and the Vomits." The kind of music that  
gave her a fit. "Crazy music like that makes people do crazy things. Like  
that Elvin Pressler _meshuggener_ who sings no better than a hound  
dog. He should only suffer a heartbreak in his hotel room. Mark my words,  
he'll end up breaking rocks in a jailhouse." And on and on. As if rock  
and roll could corrupt a nice, respectable person like me.

To the beat of _Rock Around the Clock_ , I'm lovingly unwrapping  
the bundle. _Studies on the Psychology of Sex_ , by Havelock Ellis  
and _Love Without Fear_ , by Dr. Eustace Chesser. They're a bit  
sketchy on detail, but they've inflamed my imagination. Right about now,  
I'm thinking that I maybe shouldn't have been so nasty to Marlene. The  
things we could have done. The things I could have discovered about  
female anatomy! The explosive heat of connecting physically with a  
woman's . . . Darn it, even that moron in spit curls had possibilities.

* * *

Jo:

I love him! I hate him!

We took a long walk together after supper. There was a cool breeze  
rustling the leaves as the evening sky gradually turned crimson. He  
walked silently beside me for some minutes, then shook his fists at the  
sky. Hoggie began telling me how lonely he's been and how his physical  
needs have been tormenting him. I impulsively put my arms around him and  
squeezed. I was trying to give him comfort, and it warmed me as well. He  
put his head on my breasts and cried. This started me crying too.

I suddenly tensed up. One of his hands had crept around and was cupping  
the cheek of my behind. What was he doing? I didn't know whether to slap  
him for taking liberties or to hug him more tightly. Conflicting emotions  
tore me in half.

Hoggie must have sensed something was wrong because he released me. He  
turned away from me and began walking down the path back to the cabins.  
I ran after him crying his name, but he pushed me away. He rejected me.  
He continued walking away, muttering something that sounded like  
"frigid bitch."

He doesn't pick up the phone when I try to call his cabin, and my notes  
to him remain unanswered. It's a safe bet that he won't have anything  
further to do with me. Am I really a frigid bitch? Does frigid mean what  
I think it does? I can't stand it any more. I can't stand it.

* * *

Morris:

It had to happen, I suppose. My mom went snooping through my things and  
found the sex books. How could I do this to her, she said. Screamed. Her  
son reading the most vile pornography! Infected by it! Polluted!

She couldn't stand it. She had to talk this over with someone who could  
understand how a mother felt when her son went bad. She was going to  
talk to that nice lady running the administrative office. Of all the  
persons she could talk to, she had to pick Our Lady of Sorrows, the  
dried up old bitch they call Holy Jo.

* * *

Jo:

I just had to calm down a hysterical woman, one of the guests actually.  
Her son had been corrupted by pornography and rock and roll music,  
so she claimed. I finally convinced her that opportunities for mayhem  
and mischief are severely limited at this well-run resort. She left,  
no longer screaming and raving, but crying and sniffling into one of my  
best embroidered hankies.

The two infernal, depraved books are still sitting here on my desk. Maybe  
I'll sneak a peek at them to find out just what manner of malign depravity  
they depict. I must find out more about this evil if I am to combat it.

* * *

Morris:

My parents are arguing about leaving early. Mom won't talk to me and  
Dad just give me a wounded look. What have I done, after all, that's  
so bad? It was only a little sociological research. They were just  
books. Just books, damn it.

* * *

Jo:

I can't stand myself or my life any longer. Am I to remain cut off from  
the pleasures of the flesh forever more? Am I forever destined to be a  
maiden aunt, never to participate in the central experience of life?  
Anything must be better than this. Anything.

The books gave me some ideas. Ideas. Ideas I can't get out of my mind.  
Nasty ideas. Devilish ideas.

I know what I must do. Break out. Break the ties of morality that bind me.  
Smash the temple. Become a bad girl, if only long enough to find out. To  
find out what it's really like.

Courage. What I need is courage. If there's no other way, I'll take  
liquid courage. Demon rum.

All I know is I've got to do something. I just don't know what.

* * *

Morris:

We're packing to leave, and I'm in complete disgrace. All I know is  
I've got to do something. I just don't know what.

* * *

Jo:

The supply shed had a Dutch door, meaning that the upper panel could  
open, with the lower one still latched shut, or vice versa. This was  
convenient for dispensing fresh linen and towels twice weekly.

It was as if I were in a trance. I didn't seem to be acting of my own  
volition. Part of me recoiled in horror from what I was about to do,  
but another, more powerful part laughed gleefully and made my body do  
its will. It was evil, what I was doing, but I wanted to do it more  
than I had ever wanted anything in my life.

There was a low wooden table in back. No one much used it, except to  
stack boxes of detergent on, and occasionally one of the household  
staff might precariously perch on it while sneaking a quick smoke. Its  
scratched and battered coats of lacquer had mostly flaked off and it had  
jagged splinters. I dragged that old table over just inside the Dutch  
door and put a couple of folded woolen camp blankets on top for padding.  
That would make it more comfortable to perch on.

A part of me was wailing. I pulled the bolt back on the bottom door,  
swung it inward, and latched it out of the way. Did I really want to  
do this? No, no, no! I didn't want to, I _had_ to! I pulled down  
my slip and stepped out of it. Now I unstrapped my girdle, pulled it  
off. My bare skin was cold and I was breaking out in goosebumps. I was  
naked from the waist down.

I could see several men walking by in the distance. Now or never. One  
knee up, then both. I was kneeling on the table, bent over. I bent over  
forward, supported on knees and elbows. I faced toward the virginal white  
linens stacked neatly on the shelves, and my bare behind was sticking  
out through the open top of the door. Sticking out. My Mary Jane was  
sticking out, exposed and naked for all the world to see. And feel. And  
do nasty things to.

* * *

Morris:

I happened to be down by the supply shed when I heard loud voices. There  
was a small group of men standing in a circle. They seemed to be arguing  
among themselves. I walked nearer.

The bottom half of the door where they dispensed linen was open. That  
was unusual. It was always the top part of the door that they opened. And  
it wasn't even linen day. The men were gesturing toward the shed. I got  
closer to see.

There was something there, something white below the horizontal partition  
of the split door. I couldn't quite make it out in the late-afternoon  
shadows. Wait. It was, it couldn't be! It was a human posterior, a bare  
backside to be precise, and from the looks of it, the very round backside  
of a woman. Below the cheeks, I saw a dark streak of pubic hair, and  
what might be the crimson of what my books had described as _labia_.

"She's bending over 'cause she wants it, that's why," one of the watching  
men was saying. "She wants the ol' sausage in her oven, that's what she  
wants. And which of you guys is man enough to give it to her?" The others  
guffawed.

Then they noticed me watching them.

"Hey, it's the boy wonder. The know-it-all whiz kid. The perfessor. Did yer  
books tell you what to do with that stuff, huh?" More laughter.

They had me by the arms and were dragging me toward the doorway. "C'mon  
egghead, are you a man or a mouse? Pull out your pecker and stick it in."

 

They let go of me and left me standing in front of that nakedness. I  
guess I could have just walked away, having to brave nothing worse than  
some good-natured laughter and maybe a few jeers. But those alabaster  
curves and that dark mystery in front of me. Beckoning me. I remembered  
what the books had hinted at, and it all became clear in that moment. My  
member stood rock-hard in my pants, and there was a fire raging within me.

There was resistance. It felt like thrusting into my closed fist when  
I tried to masturbate without using lubrication. After a couple of  
pushes and pulls, it got a little looser, began to feel better, and I was  
throbbing, then exploding, and it felt like the top of my head was lifting  
off. There were a couple of smears of blood on my penis when I pulled out.

"Hey, she's a virgin," the guy behind me said. " _Was_ a virgin,"  
someone else laughed.

Someone clapped me on the back, then they lined up to take turns.

* * *

Jo:

It felt like fire the first time, and I must have fallen back into a  
trance state, and all I knew was fluid thrusting within me, wetness, and  
intervals of quiet. My insides pulled back and forth in the rhythm of the  
tides and I became a part of something greater and lesser than myself. It  
went on and on. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to scream, but I was afraid.

* * *

Morris:

I was most of the way to our cabin when I knew I had to go back. She  
needed me. She needed rescuing. I ran toward the shed.

There was a long line of men waiting, and someone was pumping into  
her. I thought I heard gasping and faint cries. Someone was yelling,  
"Fuck her in the ass!" I had a strong premonition that Something Very  
Bad was going to happen unless I Did Something.

I tried the side entrance to the building, and of course there was a  
padlock on it. It took me about ten minutes of struggling and gouging  
with my pen knife to pry loose the hasp.

There she was, the woman kneeling bent over on a table, softly crying,  
her body trembling. It was none other than old Josie. Josie, the  
resort's paperwork queen. Josie, the woman I had been one flesh with  
scant moments before. I pulled her toward me and away from that exposed  
doorway. Sobbing, she fell into my arms and crushed me to her.

I could hear enraged yells outside. "Come on back! Bring the bitch back!"  
There were loud thumps, and the wall shook. Time to act.

A bath towel off a shelf wrapped around her body, another covered her  
head. Together, hand in hand, we ran out the side entrance to freedom.

 

* * *

 

Morris:

For about a year we stayed in contact by mail. Jo had gotten pregnant,  
it turned out. Pregnant. Whatever could have possessed her to bend over  
and stick her bare behind out that door? Whatever could have possessed  
 _me_ to insert myself into that tormented bent-over flesh? It was  
a sinister bend, indeed.

"Satan made me do it!" So said her letter just after the baby was born.  
Her parents, a folksy backwoods preacher and his beaten-down little wifey,  
adopted the little boy. She was going away somewhere to try to start a new  
life. Her last letter included some pages torn from her diary. She told me  
to read them and repent, then burn them. That was the last I heard from her.

 

His followers call him the Final Prophet, the Forerunner of the Second  
Coming.

He intends to transform the country into a Christianic Republic under  
strict religious law. This means "purifying" the Constitution, purging  
the media of heathen and secular humanist influences, requiring the  
Lord's Prayer in all public assemblies, imprisoning blasphemers, hanging  
pornographers, stoning adulterers, and so forth unto bloody infinitum.

He was just one more fundie evangelist who had managed to gather a  
following. But this guy broke into the big time. The _big_ big  
time. It seems that he has this strange force within him, a supercharged  
form of charisma. No one can withstand his hypnotic stare or the sonorous  
rolling cadences of his voice. It's almost as if he had some kind of  
uncanny power over people. Five minutes in his presence converts even  
the staunchest skeptic to a rabid follower of his cause.

Both major political parties are clamoring for his support, but he could  
eat either of them for breakfast. With an 87% approval rating in the polls,  
he stands head and shoulders above Jack Shabazz and Mariella Goldberg,  
those piss-poor excuses for presidential nominees we ended up with.

Last week, he made his entrance into the American Jerusalem, Washington,  
D.C., riding an ass. Rather blatant, but it worked. There were cheering  
crowds lining the streets. He only has to say the word, and mobs would  
march down Pennsylvania Avenue to storm the White House and install him  
as dictator.

So, now I'm risking my life (and quite possibly my immortal soul) to go  
on national television to debunk his claims of divinity. He can thunder  
from the pulpit about his miraculous birth, but he has my eyes and  
cheekbones. Damn it, he's my son, my own son. Born to Josephine and Morry,  
and there wasn't a damn thing immaculate about his conception!

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story over a dozen years ago. Little did I know ... that life imitates art.


End file.
